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spdrwdw · 10 months ago

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hi! I saw ur post abt accidentally deleting reqs and was scared since mine wasn’t answered yet (im not complaining bc ur other work is so so delicious to read 😍) anyways here it is. Ok imagine Miguel ohara being the heir to the mafia ‘throne(?)’ ima be so fr idk what they call it 💀 anyways and he’s in an arranged marriage w/ a girl from a diff mafia family as a way to make peace between the two families, except neither he or the girl are happy abt it. Enemies to lovers would just be majestic for the plot in my opinion 🤭. Anywaysssss thank u sm and remember to drink water 🫶🏻

Art by: Kimmy_art0912 Pairing: Mob Boss Miguel x Wife reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, very mild violence, no use of y/n Summary: You and Miguel come from different mafia families, forced to be married in order to form an alliance as threat from an outside. However, you and Miguel can only tolerate each other, at best. A/N: I swear I scratched and rewrote this like five different times.I am sorry it took so long. I am slowly making my way back into writing. I do thank anon and everyone else for their patience as I slowly make my way back to life and I will be writing more Miguel fics soon. I may do a part two to this, depending on interest recieved. I have been getting into mafia books so I am going to be looking into those for inspo if I do make more parts to this. Also, very very light editing was done. Word Count: 4.6k

Your family and the O’Hara’s have been enemies since your ancestors set foot into this country. Both immigrating from nothing but the clothes on their backs and pennies to their name.

Your family started working in the food industry. Working in restaurants, bakeries, etc. Anything that had to do with food. Seven days a week. Working from twelve to fourteen hour shifts just to make ends meet. Your great great grandfather worked at the local deli as well as a restaurant. When he wasn’t cutting up meat, he was in the kitchen making food. Your great great grandmother worked at the neighborhood bakery as well as the tailors. Her dream was to make clothes- dresses. She wanted to be a fashion designer. She started taking classes at the local college once they saved up enough money to invest in her studies.

Eventually, with their hard work and sacrifices, their dreams came true. Your family soon owned several restaurants as well as luxury boutiques. Everyone did their part in keeping the family businesses growing and going.

At first, it was all simply honest work. Your family stayed humble and grateful for their dedication. Then, with your great grandfather, things took a slight turn. He wanted to expand and turn into construction. Nueva York continued to go and grow, with more people coming to try to make a living and a name for themselves. And in that mix, people with bad intentions also tagged along. The family businesses were in jeopardy of being taken over or shut down completely by these power-hungry thugs. He did not want that. So, he and the rest of the family banded together and began hiring people who would be willing to work for them and protect them, whether they were military vets, criminals, or even cops. Anyone who was willing to protect the family.

Allyship with other mafia families also aided in the growth and protection. However, there was one family that yours always butted heads with.

The O’Haras. They immigrated from Ireland around the same time your great great grandparents did. They built their own businesses, casinos, hotels, and clubs- and wanted their own power and a spot with the elites of the criminal world.

At first, things were neutral between the two families. At one point, the two families were almost allies. However, one night, there was commotion going on at one of the O’Hara nightclubs. Members of your family got into a tussle with the O’Hara group and ended up being a blood bath, with both sides losing men.

Ever since then, things were tense, and the bloodshed continued to grow as oppositions rose.

No one really knew what it was that started the feud that night. Some suspected it had been over a woman. Others thought it was simply because some members were drunk and careless words were exchanged.

Either way, the rivalry continued on. Until a new threat entered the city. And there was no choice but to come together.

—

It’s been six months since you moved into his house. Six months since you lost your freedom. Six months since you got married. To Miguel O’Hara.

It all happened in an instant. First, you were out abroad, having recently gotten your first major job as a fashion designer in a luxury clothing company, wanting to be as successful as your great great grandmother, and now you were out on a little vacation to celebrate, when you received a call from your father, ordering you to come back home.

You should’ve relished that Mediterranean breeze as long as you could, because once you got on that flight back home, your world was about to be flipped on its head.

“I’m sorry…WHAT?!” You screeched at your father, you only looked at you with his calm, cool, distant, expression as he inhaled into his cigar.

“You’re getting married to Miguel O’Hara,” he repeated.

“I heard what you said! But, why?!”

“The O’Haras had agreed to a truce. Kingpin is gaining on both of our families. We are losing men and traction left and right. We agreed by aligning our families together, we will gain strength in numbers and influence.”

“And you are shipping me off into an arranged marriage! This isn’t the medieval age or whatever!

Plus, with Miguel?! At least have me marry Gabriel. He’s not an asshole like his brother.”

“Miguel is to become head of the O’Hara family as he is the first born. Plus, his determination has been promising.”

You let out a groan. You could not believe this was happening. You never wanted to get sucked into this life. That’s why you went off to college. To try to get away and make a life of your own. Your efforts were proven to be futile as you felt the rug be pulled from under you and you were being dragged along with it to the same life you were trying to escape.

Your father’s eyes softened. A hint of sorrow filled them.

“I know, sweetheart. This isn’t what I was hoping for you, either. But, it is the only way. We are running out of options. I am sure Miguel will take care of you, and you will be able to fulfill your dream of following your great great grandmother’s footsteps. I am sure she would be proud to have someone actively expanding her fashion legacy..”

You still shook your head. It was just too much for you to take in. Plus, wasn’t Miguel in a relationship with someone? Xina? No..they broke up months ago. That’s right. But, wait..he was seeing someone else? Ugh. The guy has a new girlfriend every other day.

Besides, you two did have a thing going on in the past. It wasn’t serious. Mainly the occasional hookups. You two were of rivaling families, after all. You both did have your reasons for disliking each other. So, the sex was pretty much hate sex? If that made sense. It wasn’t out of passion. Unless you could call hatred a passion.

Never did you think you’d actually be getting married to him.

After the news broke out that you and Miguel were to be wedded, everything went by in such a blur. Preparations for the wedding. The actual wedding. The honeymoon- which was hardly a honeymoon because neither of you actually spent any time together. It was just too awkward, and you knew that he wasn’t happy with this arrangement as much as you were.

When you first moved into his house, you wanted to sleep in a separate room from him, and he agreed. However, when both of your parents found out about this, they were all livid.

“How will you two get to know each other more and become intimate with each other if you are sleeping in separate beds?” Your mom cried one day when she came to visit you. You assured her there would be other situations where you and your husband would bond. Public situations where you’d be surrounded by other people and talking to those people rather than each other.

You two simply avoided each other as much as possible. And during the times when you two were together, your company was either met with silence or bickering. And sometimes even being at each other’s throats.

He would call you names like ‘immature’ ‘wild’ ‘rowdy’ and so on, simply because you refused to listen to him whenever he demanded something from you.

You’d retaliate and tell him that he was controlling and a perfectionist. Because well, he was. He had to have things done a certain way or it would ensue chaos. And while he was right about you being a little more rowdy and wild, it was simply because you had the luxury of growing somewhat more normal. Your parents did not drill the life of the mafia into your head the same way it was drilled into Miguel’s. Which is why you both clashed when trying to communicate with each other.

Right now, you were at home in the library. You spend a lot of time there, and while Miguel’s taste in reading wasn’t usually to your taste, you’d sometimes find yourself reading some of the novels that he was currently reading, as well as reading some that you’ve been purchasing and adding to the collection.

Which reminded you, you had to head over to the mall and purchase the next book of a spicy romance series you’d been reading. As well as look for an outfit to wear at the next charity event you and Miguel would be attending.

One of the few things you liked about Miguel was that he was very generous and active in the community, helping those less fortunate.

Placing the book down, you rubbed your bag and keys and decided to head out for a bit. Saying goodbye to the house staff as you walked past them, you made your way to the garage, which housed Miguel’s collection of cars, ranging from vintage to sporty and modern to big black suvs that you’d use whenever a bodyguard was transporting you somewhere, like parties. You never understood why someone needed so many cars but, whatever, as long as it wasn’t your money being spent.

You made your way over to your car, glad that you were able to bring it with you when you got married. It was your baby. One of the few things you were able to bring with you.

Glancing over at the clock on the dashboard, you bit your bottom lip. You should have enough time to purchase some books before heading off to your parents for a bit. You did promise them you would show up. They were planning lunch for you. It was your birthday today, after all.

—

Miguel stood in front of the battered man that kneeled before him, hearing the groaning of pain coming from their mouth as blood pooled around the cement floor.

Miguel’s knuckles were bleeding. But, it wasn’t his own blood, but the blood of the poor bastard that withered before him. Miguel didn’t like to use violence. He thought it was a primitive way of negotiating with his enemies. However, there were times when a little violence was necessary to get his point across. And to send a message.

Why was this man being battered like a sack of potatoes?

The man spat blood, a tooth or two flying out with the glob of blood as he remained strapped to his chair. His face was covered in blood. Beat up and mangled by the hands of the tall, brooding man before him.

Miguel slowly knelt down before the man, taking a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look up into his almost amber eyes.

“ Eres un demonio! (You're a demon). Not even the devil himself will want you!” the man spat, a glob of blood landing on Miguel’s cheek.

Miguel let out a hum of disinterest. His eyes lacked any life in them. However, this was when he felt the most alive, seeing his enemies cowering and crumbling before him.

He took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and cleaned the blood from his cheek before tossing the now soiled material at the man’s feet.

“I take that as a compliment, you know. Maybe I want the devil himself to fear me.”

Miguel took out a cigar from his coat pocket and lit it before giving it a deep inhale and exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke at the man’s face. He couldn't believe that one of Kingpin's goons had infiltrated his circle and posed himself as someone who could've been trusted. Miguel was definitely going to send that fat son of a bitch a message, by killing this guy and sending his corpse back to Kingpin's front door.

Not only that, but it also meant that they were going to have to redo background checks on everyone working for the O’Haras. That was going to be a pain in the ass.

"Gabriel! Hand me my gun," Miguel called out to his brother.

Gabriel, Peter, and Ben were all standing several feet behind Miguel, all watching as their boss beat and battered the man before them.

Gabriel was Miguel’s right hand now that their father had stepped down as head of the O’Hara family. Many thought Gabriel was going to take charge, however, Miguel was much more brutal and cut-throat than Gabriel. It made sense for Miguel to take up the mantle, despite him being an illegitimate son.

Plus, Gabriel preferred being on the sidelines instead of making the decisions.

Gabriel made his way over to his older brother, handing him the gun before stepping back to his original spot.

“Now. We can do this the easy way. Where I ask you a couple of questions and answer them. Or, we can do this the hard way, when I ask you said questions and if you refuse to answer them, I get to shoot you anywhere I want.”

”I would rather you just shoot me! I will never answer to you!” The man croaked.

“You never got shot before, have you?” Miguel hummed as he removed the safety from the gun and cocked it before pulling the trigger, shooting the man on the foot.

The man let out a screeching howl as he thrashed on the chair, letting out a series of curses.

Miguel simply nodded his head. “That’s what I thought. So..shall we begin?”

The whole ordeal took only a matter of minutes, as Miguel wasted no time in trying to get his questions answered. The man was not sitting lifeless on the chair as bullet holes decorated his body.

Kingpin had sent a lower ranked grunt to spy on them, trying to scope up any valuable information to report back to his true boss. Unfortunately for Kingpin, those in the lower ranks didn’t really get to be part of the action and behind-closed door discussions, so, this man’s life was unnecessarily wasted.

“Send his body back to Kingpin. Just leave him on his doorstep,” Miguel said as he examined his suit, letting out a grunt when he saw small splatters of blood. He was going to have to go home and change. “Will do. You should start heading back home. I am sure you wife is waiting for you,” Gabriel said as Peter and Ben began placing the body into a black body bag and carried him out to the waiting pick-up truck.

Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t hate you, but he knew that you hated him. And you had every right. You got married to him out of force, and while that wasn’t necessarily his fault, he didn’t blame you for holding a grudge on him.

“Keep me posted on any activity. I need updated background checks on everyone working for us. We can’t let anyone else slip through the cracks,” Miguel stated as he made his way over to his car, with his brother following behind him. Gabriel nodded his head as he watched his brother leave.

He had to make sure no on in his inner circle was actually working for Kingpin. Is someone indeed was, might as well just shut everything down then and there.

No. Miguel wouldn’t give up just like that. He would just have to work harder and steer Kingpin off track.

But, for the time being, his main goal was to get back home and get to his wife. It was your birthday, after all.

–

You spent the majority of the day with your parents. You had gone over to your former home- which you still miss deeply. It was such a stark contrast from where you lived now. There was just so much character, so much history in this house. It was the same house your great great grandfather had bought as a gift to his lovely wife, your great great grandmother, once their businesses were booming.

It had twelve bedrooms and sixteen bathrooms. A library where your mother would take you to read. When you were young, you’d pick out a book for your mother to read to you in bed. Mainly a fairy tale story.

You always thought your life would be a fairy tale. You always imagined yourself as the princess or heroine, going on adventures and falling in love. However, the universe was not like those in the stories. Maybe in an alternate universe. But, not in this one.

Instead, you were forced to marry the enemy in hopes of forming an alliance. Which, depending on how you looked at it, could’ve been seen as a fairytale. It didn’t feel like it. You weren’t in love with Miguel. You tolerated each other at best. Plus, you guys had shared history which made things pretty awkward at times.

—-

You were back home, waiting for your darling husband to come home and wish you a Happy Birthday. He also supposedly promised to take you out to dinner. It was really an attempt for you two to get somewhat closer together. But, you weren’t sure how well that would play out. You both liked to push each other’s buttons. You were sure it would occur tonight. And honestly, you wouldn’t want to have it any other way. You wanted to be a thorn on his side. He was always so full of himself. Always thought himself to be this bigshot. Untouchable. Unweavered. You loved proving him wrong.

You continued to wait and wait. The house staff had left for the night, including Miss Cheryl, your personally favorite housekeeper. She was an older woman, possibly in her mid-fifties. You never cared to ask her- mainly because you didn’t want to be rude and you actually liked her.

Looking up at the clock in Miguel’s office, you saw that it was already seven thirty in the evening. Reservations were supposedly made for eight. Miguel had thirty minutes to get there.

A part of you didn’t really care if he had forgotten or just waved it off. You didn’t want to force yourself to be nice with him, because who knew, you might just throw a glass of wine at him just as you did during your wedding reception.

You could hear a chime coming from the Alexa that rested on Miguel’s desk, signaling that someone had entered the house.

Finally. You honestly thought he wasn’t going to come.

Raising from his chair, you decided to go ahead and greet your husband.

He was making his way upstairs as you made your way down the hallway, both of you making eye contact.

“You’re late. I thought you weren’t going to come,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

As Miguel stepped closer, you could notice blood splattered on his white shirt.

“I know. Let me get changed real quick,” he replied as he walked past you.

You knew Miguel had a way of dealing with those who wronged him. You have seen his blood-stained knuckles, bloodied shirts and a dangerous look in his eyes. It’s pretty much like in the movies. Some poor unlucky soul gets tortured to death by the boss or someone higher up. You’d like to think that Miguel isn’t simply killing people just because of blood-lust. While it wasn’t your business to judge, you didn’t want to be married to someone who is a little too eager to get blood on his hands.

You made your way to his room, standing by the door as you watched Miguel slip on a fresh pair of pants and button-up shirt, something more suitable for dinner. Once he was finished, he took another look at you, furrowing his brows a bit.

“What?” You questioned.

“What are you wearing?”

“What do you mean ‘what are you wearing’?” You asked, looking down at your dress.

“Don’t you think that’s too revealing?” He asked.

“What? Revealing? Where? Don’t tell me showing a little leg and shoulder is prohibited. Come on! This is the height of fashion right now, as well as demonstrating body positivity.” Miguel simply gave you a look as if in disgust. Not for the body positivity part. But rather your fashion choices. He was aware of your family’s success in the fashion industry. He even applauded it. But, he was also a man with much simpler tastes. Tastes that you would sometimes groan over.

“Well, I’m not changing, so let’s just get going,” you said as you grabbed a shawl to compliment your dress, and to shut Miguel up.

The ride to the restaurant was quiet, save for the music that was playing on the radio. You two had very different music tastes. Not surprising. Sometimes you’d change the station or hook up your phone to Bluetooth. But, you tried to sit back and let him listen to his music this time.

When you two managed to get there, Miguel stopped in front of the valet and got out. The valet driver in-waiting opened the car door for you to help you get out as Miguel rounded the car, handing the keys over to the young man who then took the sleek black suv to the parking garage.

He gave you his arm to take. It had become routine. Show some sort of display of affection while in public. You never knew who could be watching. Sometimes cameras would pop out in front of you two.

The proposal was rushed. The engagement. The wedding. People grew suspicious, and rightfully so. Your families quickly came up with a story of how you and Miguel were seeing each other in secret despite the rivalry of the families. The alleged secrecy of romance and hurried marriage gave you two the the title of Romeo and Juliet. Two star-crossed lovers who went against all odds just to be together despite your families and their differences. But, unlike the story, your ending didn’t result in a double-suicide, but rather acceptance, wedding bells, and peace between the two families. Everyone bought it. Well..almost everyone.

As you two made your way inside and were greeted by the hostess, you were taken to a more secluded area of the restaurant. There, the table had been set up especially for you. A bottle of wine rested over a bed of ice, candles were lit on the table, as well as around the perimeter of your area. It would have been romantic, had you actually had romantic feelings for Miguel.

Still, he was a gentleman and he did go out of his way to reserve a nice place for you.

He pulled a chair out for you to sit and scooted you in before taking his seat across from you. The music from a live pianist in the main dining hall still reached your private area. Had it not been for them, the room would’ve been dead silent as you and Miguel silently looked through your menus.

“Can I pour you a glass of your wine?” A waitress asked onceshe approached your table. She was young. Tall and thin with big blue eyes and blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. And wearing way too much makeup. At least for your tastes.

You could see how she was looking at Miguel, batting her fake eyelashes. You thought they were either going to fall off or send her flying away. Either way, you simply rolled your eyes. You didn’t care if Miguel got hit on, but come on, at least not while you were right there to see.

“Yes, thank you,” Miguel said, giving her a charming smile. It made you roll our eyes again. Yes, he was being polite and all, but you could see right through him.

“Can I offer you both an appetizer to start?” She then asked, still looking over at Miguel.

Miguel then looked over to you, giving you a nod. “Would you like something to start with?”

”Yes, actually. Some bread for the table. they usually bring it out at the beginning,” you started. Which was true. You were just trying to be a little petty.

“And how about some crab cakes and a salad for the table?”

The waitress nodded her head, her smile now a straight line. So straight, you could swipe your card through it like a card reader.

“Yes, of course. I will put those in for you and bring you your bread,” she said before leaving the table.

You simply rolled your eyes once again as you settled back against your seat.

“How was lunch with your family?” Miguel then asked, trying to make conversation.

“It was fine,” you responded. Usually, your responses would be short, and Miguel wouldn’t entertain the topic further. You knew you should at least try to get along with him, giving that you are married and that you will be spending the rest of your life with him. You simply assumed that it just hadn’t kicked in yet. You were going to try, though.

One day.

“Ah, Mr. O’Hara! Mrs. O’Hara! A pleasure to see you two here tonight!” Someone behind you exclaimed. You could hear their heavy footsteps before turning around and seeing the owner and head chef of the restaurant. “Javier. A pleasure to see you,” Miguel said. “We were just celebrating my wife’s birthday.” “Ah! Of course! Happy birthday, Mrs. O’Hara. You look as stunning as ever,” Javier exclaimed. The man was five foot three, a mix of tan to sunburned skin, and all round. He kind of reminded you of the Pillsbury mascot. He looked so squishable and jolly.

“Actually, Javier. Would you mind me having a word with you, real quick?” Miguel then asked, scooted his chair back from the table and stood, easily towering over the man.

“O-oh! O-of cours! Of course! Come, come! Let’s step to the side,” Javier stated, now looking a little nervous as he led Miguel out of the room, leaving you alone.

All while Miguel was having his private conversation with Javier, the waitress came back with the bread and appetizers.

“We are going to need a couple of minutes,” you stated as she placed everything onto the tables.

“Of course! I’ll make my way back around in a few minutes,” the waitress said, giving you a tight-lipped smile.

You tried your best to not roll your eyes at her again as she left. Letting out a sigh, you decided to dig into the bread and appetizers. You sure weren’t going to wait for Miguel to come back to start eating. You never waited for him. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew you’d be waiting forever for him.

–

Soon enough, you were back home. You were still slightly curious about the conversation Miguel had with Chef Javier. But, you didn’t think you should press Miguel about it. Some things were meant to be kept in private. Besides, you wanted no part of this whole mafia stuff. It had stolen so much of your freedom already. You wanted to remain ignorant of what goes on behind closed doors as much as possible.

You both made your way upstairs, neither of you speaking as you made your way to your rooms for the night.

Tomorrow you were planning on heading over to the boutique. Your cousin was currently operating it and sometimes you’d go to help her out. It helped you get out of the house every once in a while. Plus, you were usually filled with inspiration when you were surrounded by your family’s clothing. You were still working on your portfolio to give out to various companies, in hopes they would hire you.

You were confident that they would. You were talented. Plus, you have your family’s name to back you up. Now, all you had to do was to make sure you get a good night’s rest so you could get up refreshed.

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shameless-army · 3 years ago

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This fic is so quait. And this chapter is so elegant and gorgeous like..... I was sighing the whole time. With the joy and pleasure reading each paragraph brings me. I waited for part 11 to come out. And I succeeded cause I removed it from my mind completely. And it was so rewarding. I am so glad I waited cause now just gotta jump to the next one.

Before that though... What can I say. Its hauntingly beautiful. Specially the forest scene. You describe woods like the wildwood tarot describe them. If you don't know. They are described as magnetic, majestic, magical beings with infinte wisdom and knowlege. Who care for every being but can seriously maim you if they want. It is one of the ancestral decks.

Reading your descriptions of the woods or anything about nature is a spiritual experience. I feel so light. Free of any emotion, Cause what are my problems even worth In front of these majestic beings?? At the same time I feel so much. Cause you make me see all the beauty.

Your descriptions make me feel electric and ethereal. Like when you walk into the woods, undisturbed by humans at the dawn, there is fog and silence. You feel exhilarated for all the possibilities but you also bask in the silent beauty that surrounds you.

At this point I can just read the different way you describe the nature with metaphors and personifications and I will be happy. Its all I need really.

Sorry for going on a huge tangent here but I love love love the way you write about the earth, or the inanimate objects. Your personification give me chills.

The character development was so good specially towards the end. It seemed so real too. You don't just make up your mind and do it, you back pedal a lot, even when you know you shouldn't. Which is shown wonderfully In sh. Wonderfully cause it doesn't feel repetitive. The fear is the same but it is shown in so many forms. Which is amazing to read.

This played like a high definition movie in mind. I felt so good. The picture you painted was awe inducing and gave me goosebumps so many times. The stream from the mountain paragraph was a beauty.

I want to quote every line in this. Which is why the one I choose finally are a lot too. I am sorry to clog your comment section like this.

The warmth of his body. The way you had fit into all of his nooks and cracks. His lips, blooming like spring’s first cherry blossoms upon your skin.

What can I say never read anything like this. Its beautiful. 😍😍😍😍😍

He kisses you lightly, like he’s not in any rush to get anywhere, like he’s got nothing planned for the rest of the day except to kiss you. One of his hands winds its way to your cheek, cupping it gently. The kiss is a soft, wandering thing.

UFF the tingling i had all over my body reading this part 🙈🙈🙈

Yoongi, you find half clothed and finally ghosting the hallways, long after breakfast has been finished. Somehow in his sleepy state, his soft aura and hard edge blend intoxicatingly well together. He sends you a wink when he finds you staring a little too long.

Isn't this yoongi described perfectly. A lazy looking ghost who can't see to be bothered but is too sexy for his own good.

Jin, all over the house, eating very drippy fruit. It seems to be a brand. A really fucking well-suited brand.

Nothing truer than this was said before this. On brand. Absolutely.

Yes, you want to say. You can keep doing that absolute fucking sexy page turn thing.

I am screaming!!!!!!! So true lol. He looks crazy hot with a book. And these are my thoughts exactly.

Like light in flight, flickering down from the trees onto you. It makes you feel like you’re bathing in something golden and rare.

I am swooning😍😍😍😍😍. Whoever end up being your SO is one lucky person. To be described like this. I am sure you will write letters for them and I am jealous because of it. ☹️😢

He reaches down and lifts your hand before flipping it over, palm facing up. Your breath shudders as he tenderly lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a full-lipped kiss to the middle of your palm. And then he lifts your hand a little higher, and kisses your wrist, right where the pulse is screaming through your veins.

There wasn't anything sexual, like hardcore sexual thing here. But why was I sweating so bad. This paragraph alone has the same effect as a full smut one shot.

When you look up at him, he’s got a bit of a smug smile on his face and you can’t help but stop the eager smile that slips across your lips. It’s good to see him like this.

True smug joon is so rare to see and a pleasure to witness.

“Hobi,” you say softly, “I couldn’t feel uncomfortable because—”

I wanted to kill someone😀😀

Taehyung, well, he is old love, shaped new.

I love this line read it like 15 times and stopped to sigh everytime. Love it. I am crying. 😭😭😭😭

They look so comfortable, like they belong there together. Like no matter how the cards fell as each of you were given your lot in life, these seven men were meant to be in the same room with one another at some point, that a spark would fly, in any universe, timeline, or life. As you stand in the hallway, the distance between you and them widens.

Bts is described so well. This is exactly how it would be. Also the fear is so real. Poor OC. I wanted to hug her.

You want to fall asleep on their chests, in their clothes. You want to wake up in the morning with them curled around you. You want to fall into them at any given moment, wrapping around their backs in the kitchen, tackling them on a hike—all the things that you know and love about your friendship with them. But if you could, you want to ask for it to linger. You want the lingering, the hands tangling, the holding on even when you should have let go long ago..

Ah the intimacy of this all I am loving it here. Funny how this started because of the ot7 thirst and ended up being so intimate and called me out in every chapter. I loved seeing a reflection of my fears 😀😀 (I am kidding I do love it all though)

The word is run.

Poor OC but I understand her all too well.

At once, you feel it all. This deep, deep consuming fear. You want to push it away, but something urges you: look a little closer and suddenly you know. This whole time, you’ve been afraid of being found. Of being looked at. Of being seen.

But beneath that lies something else: a fear that the people you hold most dearly to you do not want to find you.

I will cry !!!!!! I am crying!!!!!! I didn't sign up for this!!!!!! Why would you do this to me 😭😭😭😭

The path you were walking has long since crumbled beneath your feet. For months now, you’ve been bushwhacking through the forest. And now, finally, you see it, standing golden before you. The choice was never between the known and the unknown. It was never a choice at all. The only way forwards was always into the unknown, into the empty sky, nothing but grey clouds swimming beside you.

The truth is, there is no escape. The open door of the house marks what you already know: You’ve already been seen. But the fear is that if you turn around, no one will be there waiting for you.

I don't know what to say willow. How to describe my feelings. I love you for writing this though.

“What if I don’t know how?” It’s barely a whisper.

I cried lol. She is so adorable nad precious. But this is so true it rings very true for me irl.

The mailbox is all the way up the steps, but the way the postcard is laying in the grass is almost like the house spit it out.

This personification had me SCREAMING!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow wow wow. Willow you wordsmith. I am so glad you decided to start writing. This is what you are meant to do. These ideas and words are too pretty to be just in my mind. They deserve to come out and be read and admired. You were made to do this. To write. To inspire and to make us feel. So much. It's such a blessing I found you and get to read your works. Thank you for always blessing me with such an intricate work of art. I love you.

P. S. I actually cried everytime I said I am crying here. But I loved every second of it.

P. P. S. Iamsorryforsuchalongnote I have no self control 😭😭

sh. | ot7 | chapter ten

PAIRING ot7 x reader

RATING Explicit. 18+.

GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers.

SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no?

WC 6k

WARNINGS AND TAGS no reference to reader with pronouns. navigation of consent. yn wears a dress. mentions of bts being larger than the reader.

← || series m.list || →

AN: Hey, do you know @madseok and @calixwrites and @thatlongspringnight? because you should. because they're the literal best. writing this chapter was a bit of a several-weeks nightmare and yet these folks stepped in and helped my sanity and my creativity and this chapter. i am so so grateful for them. so much is happening with nanowrimo in this story and they're keepin me on track. pls give them a hug if you see them.

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

CHAPTER TEN: PLUMS IN OCTOBER

There’s nothing quite like waking up the night after a good cry. It has a kind of crystal clarity to it. Your lungs ache a little, your eyes are swollen, but you feel cleared out. Like your chest has been mopped and dusted and whatever’s left, well, it feels ready for the day.

The window is still open, spilling too-cool air into the room and you pull the down blankets up to your chin, rolling over, swollen eyes still sleepily closed, hand reaching out, hoping to find a body, hoping—

The window is still open. Your eyes shoot wide as the events of last night come flooding back.

The warmth of his body. The way you had fit into all of his nooks and cracks. His lips, blooming like spring’s first cherry blossoms upon your skin.

That thin line between dream and reality still wavers before you, grey and unclear. What from last night had been nothing more than the workings of your mind? And more frightfully, what had been his own doing? In the dark, it was harder to tell. Your name, sung from his lips? His hands wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go? Your lips, pressed to his neck—well, horribly unfortunately, you were very sure that that did happen. In the daylight, your face warms in embarrassment at the memory.

Snatching your hand away from the other side of the bed, you’re relieved to find it empty and surprised by the pang of longing that strikes you at the realization. Would you rather be alone, or embarrassed? You’re not sure.

Heart all a-ache, you clamber out of bed and get dressed, pulling on a comfortable flannel over a pair of leggings. The scent of breakfast is already wafting underneath the closed door, and, stomach grumbling, you make your way out of the room only to bump into a very firm body.

“Oh!”

Jimin turns around, already dressed and ready for the day.

“Jimin. Were you waiting for me?”

“Yeah,” he grins.

“Is this kind of meeting going to become regular?”

“I don’t know, do you want it to?”

You smile, reach for him, hands winding around his waist. So close, it’s hard to deny the warmth radiating out from between your bodies. He pulls you tight against his chest, threading his fingers between yours, and the two of you just stand there, smiling a little sleepily at one another before he speaks:

“I’m going to kiss you. You know, as a good morning.”

His lips are dangerously close. “Uh-huh, sure. A good morning.”

“Good morning,” he says against your lips.

“Good morning,” you reply breathily.

Softness though, quickly becomes heat as he slips his tongue between your lips and maneuvers you against the closed bedroom door. His hips press into yours, grinding against you. It’s heated, needy. You respond with your fingers drawing down his back. Searching for skin, you untuck his button down from his pants and skate your fingers along the warmth of his hips. You think he might even fuck you, right outside your bedroom, if you let him, fast and desperate. It’s like second nature to imagine him breathing hard against your neck as he fucks into you, imagine him coming and it dripping down your—

Your name sounds from the end of the hallway. And then: “Jimin? Is that you?”

“Shit, shit, shit,” you curse, your hand fumbling for the doorknob behind you as you press down and tumble with Jimin into the bedroom. You slam the door behind you as footsteps ring down the hallways, ever nearing. In a frenzy, you attempt to straighten yourselves out. Jimin chuckles as he watches you frantically try to compose yourself, tugging your clothes back into place.

“It’s Hoseok,” Jimin says, just as the door opens and the man himself walks in. His gaze flickers between the two of you, your bedhead, Jimin’s half untucked button-down shirt.

“Morning, Jimin.”

“Morning Hobi,” Jimin says, already reaching for the door ready to slip out. “See you at breakfast.” You throw him a meaningful glare as he disappears into the hallway.

“Are you okay?” Hoseok asks, stepping closer. “Your lip—” Before you know what’s happening, he reaches out for you, and traces his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “What happened?” In his voice, there’s an edge of curiosity, of trepidation.

Instead of answering, you find yourself staring up at him. A thick lock of dark hair falls into his eyes, and he blinks, but, too focused on gliding his rather large thumb against the soft flesh of your mouth, doesn’t brush it away. But you do, reaching for him and tucking the piece of hair tenderly behind his ear again. And there’s that thing again.

Clear and crystal cold, like the wind sweeping in through the open window. Striking right through your chest, while your fingers trace the shell of his ear and his thumb presses into the corner of your lip.

Your breath shudders to life, and as it sweeps over his hand, he seems to blink back to reality, and with a nervous chuckle, slips his hand away from your mouth.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Forgot myself there for a moment.”

“’s okay, nothing to apologize for,” you breathe. And you mean it. You don’t want him to apologize for any of it.

You two are still standing so close.

“Breakfast?”

“Breakfast, yeah,” you chuckle, and the tension breaks. He smiles that familiar smile and leads you out of the bedroom.

As your nose fills with the smell of kartoffelpuffer and roasted chestnuts, the phrase echoes in your mind: forgot myself. Funny enough, you feel more yourself than you have in months, despite the soft, confusing glow that’s now taken up residence in your chest. Hoseok sits close to you at breakfast, and at some point, his arm is swung across the back of your chair. As Jimin chatters about a dream he had—something about camping in the forest to awaken to an empty lake—you let yourself lean against Hobi’s arm. He smiles down at you when you do, grinning like you’ve just made his day, and you warm beneath his gaze. When you turn your attention back to Jimin and his dream, you almost think Hoseok’s fingers brush against the back of your neck.

But it can’t be.

It feels too normal. It feels too right. To have him there, touching you like that. When you glance up at him, he’s looking down at you, a smile quirking in the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It doesn’t feel like nothing.

When his gaze shifts across the table, you follow it.

Jin is leaning back in his chair, a slow, late morning smile spreading across his face. One of his hands is on Tae’s thigh, who is chatting eagerly and enthusiastically with Jimin, but your attention is anywhere but there. Instead, it’s on Jin’s mouth.

Jin bites into a ripe plum—is it even plum season anymore?—and the juice spills out from his mouth, dribbling down one corner while a particularly large drop glides over the crest of his lip before slipping down to his chin. His tongue darts out to collect the purpling juice, but he’s too late, the plum bead is already trailing down his neck, a kind of dark stain on his skin.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, you curse, What the fuck is up with these men today?

It’s then that he catches your gaze.

“Still hungry?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“V-very full, um but—Where’d you get that?” you stammer. It’s long past season for ripe plums.

“The tree. In the backyard.”

Curious, you stand from the table, your curiosity winning out over your desire to stay glued to Hobi’s side, and drift to the broad window that looks over the backyard. Sure enough, among the golden and bare trees stands a fully fruiting plum tree.

“How strange,” you murmur. “A plum, in October.”

Breakfast breaks, and you’re nearly ecstatic to hear that it’s not your turn to do dishes. The rest of the day stretches out before you, empty and impending.

Tonight is the night you all decide where your relationship is going.

Over breakfast, Jimin had suggested that you all dress up for dinner tonight, something that everyone hastily agreed to, as it had been a while since you all had done something of the sort. Back before you had all been separated, every once in a while you, as a group, would dress to the nines and hit the town, always deciding on a fraudulent event to celebrate: a 50th wedding anniversary, a nobel prize, a belated middle school graduation. Dazzling and decadently dressed, any stranger who came across your party would be convinced within minutes by a chirpy Jungkook and serious Jin of the notoriety of the night. The frequency of these events lead to you all being prepared to dress to the stars at the drop of a hat. However, those nights feel like eons ago.

Now, though, a significant part of you feels as though all of you are speeding towards imminent doom. At least you’ll be doing so in style, you think wryly.

You decide to take the day to yourself, avoiding the boys’ invitations to go kayaking and rockclimbing and the like, instead insisting on getting some much-needed quiet time.

That doesn’t last long though, because it seems like every corner you turn in the house, another beautiful man is waiting, taking up space, making you think wildly improper things:

Taehyung, emerging from the heated pool in the backyard. The water drips off of his body, and you swear time has slowed to slow motion. Droplets roll down the tight muscle of his torso and he shakes out his long, wet hair in a kind of doggish motion. There’s something wildly youthful about him these days, you think as you watch from the window. A kind of youth that has little to do with age and more to do with an unhinged kind of freedom.

Jin, all over the house, eating very drippy fruit. It seems to be a brand. A really fucking well-suited brand.

The day passes quickly. Too quickly. You want to cling to time, ask it to hold back, and you do your best to do so, scrolling through your phone and flipping through random books in the library.

But soon the sky is darkening and the house becomes quiet as everyone begins to get ready for dinner and the looming conversation. As you’re making your way back to your room to try to scramble something from your pile of sweatpants and sweaters that might look a little bit nice, you stumble across a small reading nook, inhabited by your roommate. You poke your head in.

Namjoon is sprawled elegantly across the window seat that overlooks the back of the house. Framed against the dramatic mountains, he looks the picture of the intellectual mountain man, a book propped up in his hands, the valleys behind him caked in sunset.

When he goes to turn the page, he brings the pad of his thumb to his lips. Pink tongue darts out to wet the tip, before he presses it to the corner of the page with such precision and care that you too, find yourself wetting your lips.

He notices your gaze.

“Hm?” he hums your name. “Can I help you?”

Yes, you want to say. You can keep doing that absolute fucking sexy page turn thing.

“Nope, nah, all good,” you say a little too quickly.

“Oh?” he cocks an eyebrow and closes the book with a loud snap! “It seems like you’re thinking about something?” You shake your head, but he stands and moves towards you. “Perhaps, are you thinking about yesterday?” He knows you too well. You give in.

You nod.

His eyes darken as the two of you stare into one another. It’s the same look as yesterday: the steadiness of him, knowing in his desire. Like light in flight, flickering down from the trees onto you. It makes you feel like you’re bathing in something golden and rare.

His steps sound dully on the wooden floor as he approaches. You’ve been hovering against the doorway, watching him, so when he arrives before you, he slots himself in in the narrow frame, looking every inch the broad and dashing man that he is. His large hand grips the archway as he towers over you. Your back is pressed to the inside of the old wooden door now, and the two of you swing in a balance between the two rooms.

Everything says he’s going to kiss you. His lips are a little flushed. His lids, heavy. His breath, so, so close to weaving itself into yours. He says otherwise.

“I won’t kiss you. Not before all the dust settles. Doesn’t seem fair to the others. But I will do this.”

Somehow him not kissing you where you want him to is even more thrilling, as your whole body buzzes with excitement. It’s like standing on the edge of a great height and looking down.

“Oh, please, Namjoon. Are you really going to deny me?” you tease, sure that his valiance will lose out against his desire.

He looks genuinely torn for a moment there, but he nods, sets his face into that of a perfect gentleman and says “Yes.”

Your heart is racing. “And I can’t do anything to convince you otherwise?”

With the softest of touches, he reaches for you, takes your chin in his hand, and runs his thumb across your cheekbone before tracing it over the shell of your ear. He takes you in for what feels like a long moment, and you know he is considering your offer. Considering what you might offer. Your heart ricochets in your chest.

“No,” he says finally, though it looks like it pains him.

Your heart thuds to a disappointed stop.

“Well,” you say, perking up, still trying to brush the electricity of his touch from the soft skin off your face. “If you’re going to deny me that, you might at least escort me to my chambers?”

“That I can do,” he smiles and takes your arm like he did yesterday. “Shall we tour the grounds?”

“Indeed, m’lord.”

He chuckles.

The two of you wander off down the hallway, leaving your books behind.

“Tell me,” you say. “Why isn’t it fair to the others that you kiss me?”

Namjoon laughs at your pout. “Well, I suppose. It feels like everything’s hanging in the balance of this question and maybe… well, maybe I lost a bit of my sense yesterday. Pushed things too far.”

“I didn’t think you pushed things too far, not at all,” you grin. And then more quietly. “Maybe I wouldn’t have minded if you pushed it a little bit further even.”

Namjoon coughs at the insinuation.

“Oh?”

“Mm,” you affirm.

When you look up at him, he’s got a bit of a smug smile on his face and you can’t help but stop the eager smile that slips across your lips. It’s good to see him like this.

“Can I expect you’ll be showing up in all your finest tonight?” Namjoon asks.

“Ah, well, if my finest is my best cable knit sweater and my favorite pair of leggings, then yes.”

“You mean you’re not dressing up?” He seems shocked.

“I forgot to pack my MET gala look,” you shrug.

“Unacceptable!” he cries, letting go of your arm. “It’s not tradition if you’re not in your finest—we’ll have to find you something.”

“What? You brought a full-on suit to the mountains?”

“Yes of course I brought a suit to the mountains,” Namjoon says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Most of the others did too.”

“Oh.” You suddenly feel strange showing up in a pair of sweatpants when all of your friends will be in tuxedos.

Namjoon notices. “But don’t you worry one bit. I’ll find you something to wear before tonight.” “My aunt has to have left some clothes somewhere. She was known for her parties, I bet I can find a boa and something sparkly somewhere.”

“You’ll pick something out for me?”

“I’ll pick something out for you,” he grins.

You warm at the thought of Namjoon picking something out just for you: him staring at colors and cuts and guessing what kind of thing you would look best in.

The two of you chatter as you wander around the many hallways of the house, before making your way back to your bedroom, your arm cradled in his elbow. It feels like the beginning of a new habit. One you like.

As you near the glass bridge, it strikes you that this may be the last moment together before everything changes. The last moment as a friend group that is merely a friend group.

You dare to look down at the edge of the bridge, and you find something that surprises you. Before, it was simply a rocky ravine. But a crystal clear stream trickles down through the rocks and trees. Had that been there before? Where it emerges from the rock, it looks like the mountain has cracked open and is spilling its innards to the world.

“Has that always been there?” you ask.

“Oh, uh, I—I don’t think so?” Namjoon murmurs, just as struck as you. “How strange.”

The dress Namjoon picked is stunning. Somehow, it fits you perfectly, and you say a small thank you to his aunt for the opportunity to wear something that looks, well, like a piece of art.

The dress blooms in red. Soft fabric falls like the new stream of water down your body, where it gathers at your hip before spilling down in a new cascade to the floor. Sleeves that at first felt too large to wear now perch at your shoulders, a semi-transparent poof that makes you feel like someone who’s just recently discovered they are royal.

You feel divine.

It’s been so long since you dressed up, and tonight, it feels like some kind of offering to a temperamental god.

Dressed, (well, mostly, the shoes Namjoon brought you were microscopically small) you wander out into the house, but no one is to be seen. You still have a little bit of time before dinner, and so when the urge pulls you, you follow.

The mountains, dressed in dusk, call.

You step outside, the cold biting through the warm fabric of the dress, the hiking boots you’ve donned, a stark contrast to the elegance of the outfit. You wander towards the edge of the kept yard to where one side of the slope drops off into the valley.

“Hi,” a dark voice murmurs from behind you.

“Hoseok,” you smile.

“It’s so formal when you speak to me like that,” he frowns.

“Hobi—” you correct.

“You’re beautiful—”

“Ah—”

“I mean, you look beautiful tonight.”

“And I don’t the other nights?” You raise a teasing eyebrow.

“No, of course, but—you look a different kind of beautiful tonight. By the way… last night. I’m sorry about last night,” Hoseok says quickly.

“Sorry?” you say. “No, no need to be sor—”

“I was dreaming,” he interrupts. “And forgot my place.”

Forgot my place.

You don’t know how to fit these words into your body.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, if you woke up and felt unsafe or worried or—”

“No, no, I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

Hoseok freezes and looks at you, scanning your face like he’s searching for something in particular.

“You—you weren’t?”

It’s like he’s puzzling language together. If you weren’t made uncomfortable by his entanglement in you, then you must—

You reach for his hand, taking it in yours and pulling him close to you.

“Hobi,” you say softly, “I couldn’t feel uncomfortable because—”

Jin’s voice breaks through the cold.

“Where the hell have you been? Everyone’s waiting!” He struts through the open door, waddling awkwardly in socked feet and a well fitted tuxedo. Of course he brought a tuxedo to the mountains. “Fuck,” he hisses, as the cold seeps through the thin fabric of his socks. His walk is only paused by the punching bag that hangs in the outdoor gym, throwing a half-hearted jab, before continuing his waddle towards you. He grabs both of your hands and tugs you towards the warmth already spilling out of the open door. “Inside, inside. We’re starving and impatient.”

Hoseok huffs.

“In more ways than one,” Jin winks.

Hoseok pulls his arm out from yours and your phone tumbles from your hand, rolling a little farther back. When he goes to turn around, you stop him, tell him, “I got it, I’ll be right behind you.”

Still, he bends down, picks it up for you, and slips it into your hand with a little pat.

“I’ll see you soon,” he smiles knowingly, and the pair disappears inside.

You take a long, last moment gazing at a distant summit, painted peach and purple as the sun sinks below the horizon of the mountains. Each day that passes, they feel more and more familiar. Like learning a new friend.

You’re not entirely sure why you need the extra space, but it calls for you, in the way that your chest is a little too tight, in the way that your breathing comes a little too quickly.

What are you feeling?

You wander slowly up to the house, taking your sweet time as you circle around the question. You slip inside, toeing off your boots and dropping your jacket on a nearby chair. From down the hallway, the boys’ voices echo, a soft ruckus of chatter and chuckles.

From down the hallway, you peer inside the dining room where all seven of them are sitting, Hobi is still getting settled in his big winter jacket. You smile as your eyes gaze over each of their faces, considering each one of them and the prospect that Yoongi has set before all of you.

Everyone should fuck.

And then Jimin’s words: There is enough mutual desire in this house to power an entire country. Had he really meant it? As the group confidant, you were sure he would be the one to hear about anything first, but, well, looking at them, you wonder if they too, feel a semblance of what you feel when you look over each of them:

Namjoon, and his sharp, all-seeing eyes: you want them all over you. That you might glimpse something new about the world, maybe even about yourself, in that warm brown. You want Yoongi, exquisite composer of moments, you want him, want to relish in his space of creation once more. Taehyung, well, he is old love, shaped new. And Jin, and his deep reserve of joy and unexpected wisdom. Jungkook, delightful Jungkook, sparkles with a springtime of youth and adventure. Jimin, designer of control, his emotional depth and precision of action inspires you. And, of course Hobi. What is it about Hobi? You don’t know how to put him to words. You only know that when your eyes lock with his, your heart clicks into some place deep and unknowable within—but your chest tightens at the thought.

Hobi is the unknowable. What you do know is this: You want them. You want them in more ways than one. But thinking about that starts you down a path that definitely screams run. Even if that voice that turns its back at the first sign of complication is becoming quieter these days, it still hums in your head. And tonight the hum is building to a fever pitch.

Jungkook sits with his feet propped up in Taehyung’s lap, Hobi chuckles with Yoongi about something. Namjoon, Jin, and Jimin look at something on a phone. As you look at them joking around, your chest warms. Warms like there’s a wood fire, stoked too quickly to flame.

All at once, something shatters in your chest. As you reach for your own desire, it feels like everything you have worked for falls apart.

You want this, yes. You undeniably and irrevocably want this.

But you want them closer than sex too.

You tell yourself that all it is, all you want is intimacy. Intimacy, after all these months of solitude. But something in your chest sings, more, it’s more.

It’s not just the sex, but you’re tripping over the unspoken words, it’s something about wanting them all closer, closer, closer. Closer than sex. What is the word?

The word is run.

Run, run, run.

Your breath quickens in your chest, gasps rising from the simmering fear in your gut. All at once, the formerly towering ceilings seem even farther away, and the spacious walls are creeping closer to you.

A thousand words sing emptily on your tongue as you look at them.

Your body makes the decision for you.

Out of the hallway, the boys’ voices drowned out by the pounding in your head, the hallways blurring past. Someone calls your name, but all you know is the door. Get to the door. You hurry to the front of the house, where your keys are still hanging from the wrought iron key rack where you left them that first day, and you snatch them up, the metal biting into the soft flesh of your palms with how tight you hold them.

But when you push open the heavy wooden entryway, the door flinging open behind you, your car is nowhere to be seen.

You had parked it there, right beneath the steps, in the gravel driveway. You were sure of it.

But there’s no car. There’s not even a driveway. Instead of gravel, at the bottom of the steps lies a thick carpet of small plants, wild grass, and fallen leaves. And rising before you like an ancient being, a dense wall of trees. Evergreens and oaks and aspens tangled so closely together.

In your red dress, you are but a small creature against the dark beast of the forest. Earlier, you had felt like an offering to a distant god. And now you know you are.

It’s as if the whole world has been swallowed up. There’s nothing there. No road. No cars. No little village waiting at the bottom of the valley. It’s just wilderness. The whole world, returned to what it must have once been: Dense, impenetrable wilderness.

Something between a sob and a gasp racks through your body and the keys you were holding so tightly drop to the steps beneath your feet.

But beneath that lies something else: a fear that the people you hold most dearly to you do not want to find you.

As if in answer to the churning of your insides, before you stretches the great unknown.

Darkness is threaded between the trees, and as if it were a pool of water, you see yourself reflected back in it. Small, impossibly small, lost in the mountains, and standing with your back to an open door.

So far away from what you know, if you were even to try to get back home, away from this, away from this burning, horrible, lovely beast in your chest—what would be waiting for you? A vacant apartment? An empty city? A silent world? The practice of life, the normalcy, the companionship? To go back is to go further from it. See: all of it is gone. Decimated in the rubble of the past. What you know, what you knew, that disappeared months ago, when the world around you dissolved.

And them. And them, beside you, a voice within reminds you.

It’s time to let the beast within you lead the way.

Where? You’re not sure. In this instance you know with your whole body: what you’re looking for is not back. It’s forward, somewhere in your future.

Your knees give out beneath you and you sink to the cold steps, fingers tangled in your sweater, arms wrapping tightly around your torso.

The truth is, there is no escape. The open door of the house marks what you already know: You’ve already been seen. But the fear is that if you turn around, no one will be there waiting for you.

Someone calls your name softly from behind you.

“Everyone is waiting. Are—are you okay?” It’s Yoongi and you shudder and wrap your arms tighter around your body. Your friend steps down before you and gingerly, reaches down to lift your face to his. “Oh.” When he sees you he plops right down beside you, pulling your arms apart and wrapping himself around you too. “You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you?”

You nod.

“I thought you were going to get in your car and leave.”

“I tried.”

“Huh?”

“It’s gone,” you motion to the forest spreading before you.

Yoongi looks between you and the spot where you swear you parked your car. “Metaphorically? ‘S right there?”

You both stare at each other in confusion, and it’s then that you realize. Yoongi doesn’t see the forest. Not like what you see.

But he sees the confusion on your face, and pulls you into his arms, his body wrapped around yours, protecting you from the cold, from the confusion, from it all.

And there, he says the thing he should have said months ago, while you were still wrapped in his arms and in his bed as the snow drifted down outside the frosted window: “You have to stop running.” His face is hard, but earnest, and when you feel the truth rising to your lips you let it past, into the space between you:

“What if I don’t know how?” It’s barely a whisper.

He grabs your hands, his long fingers lacing securely around your sweaty palms, and he squeezes them tightly, and it’s like a ship anchoring into a long-forgotten harbor. It’s not romantic, not sexy, not one bit—but it’s what you need.

“That’s okay. This, this doesn’t have to be something you need to know how to do. It’s more something you stumble into, and you give whatever you want to give it, and you hold onto your kindness, and then hope for the best.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Does that sound so difficult?”

“No.”

“And is it something you want?”

You look up at him, the unfallen tears still warm against your lashes when you blink. And you nod.

“Then there’s only one thing you have to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Speak your desire.” He nods, encouraging you.

You elbow him and he grunts. “That’s fucking cheesy.”

“I don’t know, man, what else do you want me to say? Fuck your friends? You don’t need my permission.”

“Okay fine.”

“You understand the sentiment.”

“I do.”

“So I mean it, speak it.”

He looks at you so hard, you think he might be able to read the words off your tongue without speaking them.

“I… want you. I want them.”

Yoongi slowly extricates himself from you, stands, and brushes his hands off his against his jeans. “Good. Then I’ll give you a moment and when you’re ready, come inside.”

You nod and watch him close the front door softly behind him with a gentle click.

Cupping the back of your head, you press your fingers into the skin at the nape of your neck, a nervous tic. The cold near-winter air slices through your lungs and you’re suddenly aware of just how pericing the chill is. That and—

At the edge of the forest, the sprawling forest that is still very much there, something white flutters in the grass, like a birdwing searching for flight.

A piece of paper.

You creep towards the looming woods, careful not to step beneath the shadow of the great being, and tug the paper from the grass. A postcard.

The mailbox is all the way up the steps, but the way the postcard is laying in the grass is almost like the house spit it out.

Your heart catches in your throat as you read the message scrawled hastily on the front.

I’ve made my decision. An opportunity like this doesn’t present itself often and I’m not going to let it pass, I’m not going to give up the chance to have you again. I can’t get you out of my head and I need you to know what I know.

All of a sudden it feels like your heart is going to eat straight through your chest, it gallops through you at a forbidden pace. Which of your boys wrote this? Which one—

You flip the card over. There, scribbled:

For my sunshine, from your Sora.

The trees feel like they’re looking at you. Like they lean closer. The house behind you, encouraging.

What you do next can only be described as marching. Hands clenched together, the postcard crumpled in your fist.

In the hallway, there’s a wastebin. You look at it for a long moment before deciding.

You toss the postcard away.

Something deep within you cracks open as the paper hits the bottom of the empty bin with the softest tap. You know you’re not supposed to be doing this. You know this is wrong. And yet you can’t bear any other reality.

Though reality seems rather shifty these days.

At the doorway, you take a deep breath. Something deep within you releases.

“Hi,” you say softly. It’s so quiet. And yet, seven pairs of dark eyes turn to look at you.

You squeeze your hand so tight that the nails pinch into your skin. Come on. But when your name slips from the lips of one of the men in the room with such softness, such care, that’s enough encouragement for you.

“I’m in.”

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